


The Perfect Canvas

by Nines35711



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Artists, Blood, Blood Loss, Body Worship, Catheters, Confusion, Cutting, Delirium, Drugs, Eye Trauma, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied Genital Mutilation, Kidnapping, Kissing, Knives, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual, Scarification, Shaving, Stockholm Syndrome, Trans Male Character, Unconsciousness, Using the human body as a canvas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nines35711/pseuds/Nines35711
Summary: Hands wander over his skin lovingly, worshiping every dip and curve on his body. The scalpel stings but he doesn't feel it through the haze of drugs. He's never felt so loved before, so appreciated. He could lie here forever, under the adoring gaze and razor-sharp scalpel of the artist.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	The Perfect Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Man I had a whole thing planned out but I never actually wrote it, so have the thing I wrote while marathoning horror movies. Also, you better have read all the tags. I don't want to see any complaints, cause I tried to tag this shit as thoroughly as possible.

Charlie noticed two things when he was pulled from blissful slumber. One, he was tied up. His arms were spread out across a large board and he was reclined on an angle, suspended in midair. Two, he was naked. He could tell that the air was cold but with how drowsy and delirious he was, he couldn’t actually feel it. When he glanced down he saw the vast expanse of his skin and he managed to furrow his brows in confusion before his eyes rolled back and he dozed off once more.

Someone was touching his chest. He blinked awake to see a gloved hand trailing over his body. His addled brain couldn’t quite make out the owner of the hand and he mumbled out a protest as the hand moved lower.

“Don’t worry, my dear canvas. I’m just inspecting what I was given to work with.” The words confused him too much for the weirdness to properly set in. A light flicked on, bright and nearly blinding. He flinched back from it but the platform he was held on didn’t allow for much movement.

“Whhs… What’reyou doinnn?” His words came out slurred and messy. A second hand lifted up his chin so he was looking the person in the eye. He shook his head but the hand held firm.

“I told you, don’t worry. Now, you’ve got some scarring but that’s not a big deal. It’s symmetrical so I can work it into the design. Oh you’ve got such lovely skin, don’t you, canvas. Yes, yes, I think I can do something great with you.” Again, he knew the words were weird, were  _ wrong _ , but he couldn’t feel anything more than confusion as he tried to figure out what was happening.

Something wet rubbed over his chest. He was washed with a strong-smelling chemical that made his skin tingle. The person held him still while they worked down his body, cleaning him with firm, thorough strokes. They were so gentle, especially around his chest scars and when they dipped down between his legs. “We’ll need to trim down the hair,” they hummed as they cleaned the soft folds. He’d never been touched like this before, never felt such reverent hands slide down his thighs, his calves, to his feet, and wash his toes and the arches of his feet. The part of his brain still capable of semi-rational thought scolded the part that enjoyed this.  _ I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t like this _ , he thought to himself.

The person left him for a moment and came back with a razor. Charlie’s right leg was pulled to the side and something was massaged into the curly hair on his groin. He shook his head but it didn’t stop them from bringing the blade down close to the sensitive area and carefully shaving. He didn’t move for fear he’d get cut, instead watching with lidded eyes as he was shaved clean.

When he was smooth and bare, they wiped up the remaining substance on his skin, pressed something between his legs, and left him with a funny feeling in his urethra. He wiggled around a bit but eventually got too tired and his eyes drooped shut. He drooled onto his chest as sleep overtook him.

He felt even more drowsy when he woke up. A fresh dose was still stinging in the crook of his elbow. There were hands on him again. They didn’t explore this time, they prodded and scraped. His vision was too blurry to make out the room but he did see hands, the nice hands in the gloves, the ones that touch him and clean him. He struggled for a moment before going slack.

“Hello, Canvas. I think we’ll start today. I’m just so eager to see what I can create, aren’t you?” He blinked up at the person with a dumb look on his face. His mouth moved but his lips felt puffy and numb, and he wasn’t sure if he was actually speaking. “Excellent.”

He faded in and out of consciousness while things clicked and clacked around him. He was cleaned again, this time something that didn’t smell bad, then the platform was laid flat. The Artist loomed over him, a shadow in the bright light coming from above. He felt like… like something, being inspected under a microscope. His brain couldn’t figure out the metaphor. He didn’t need to, really, but it would nag him for… Oh well.

Something cold and thin pressed against his skin. He felt the pressure, then he was split open, pain pushing against the curtain of haze as the thing cut right between his collar bones. He hissed in pain even though he couldn’t properly feel it. The Artist shushed him, holding his chest down with a gentle hand. The thing cut down, down his chest until he wondered if the person would gut him, cut open his stomach, and take all the organs out.

“You’re so good. Your skin splits so perfectly for me.” That wasn’t a compliment, his brain screeched. The tiny part that still had some sense did, anyway. He nodded anyway.

“Gghhk.. Ghhh-ood?” The Artist grinned at him. He shuddered as the thing inside him left. Crimson spilled over his skin and he shuddered when fingers stroked over the wound in his chest. The Artist inspected the thin, clean line that they made in their Canvas. He wanted to push away the hand but the restraints held him still.

More lines, brush strokes over his skin, slices in his flesh, were laid upon his body. The Artist gave him each one lovingly. Their blade pulled open the months-old scar under his nipple and he moaned when the pain finally pierced the haze. He started to whimper. Suddenly the blade was gone. He was breathing heavily now, his blood pooling under him, and there was a sharp jab in his arm. He looked over and saw the needle in his arm again. The hole in the haze was gone once more. He went limp on the table while the Artist cleaned him up. The blood was mopped lovingly from his heaving, shuddering skin.

When his body was clean enough to continue, another line was drawn across the right side of his chest. His eyes fluttered closed again as the incisions trailed down his chest.

He was Charlie- no. The canvas, he was the Artist’s Canvas. His skin was for whatever they wanted. He would be a good Canvas, would lay still under the sharp, loving knife.

Something pressed into the top of his foot. He woke up again and saw the Artist sliding the blade into the thin skin. His toes curled at the sight, still unable to feel. Cuts had been made down his chest and belly, and into his thighs. Distantly, his groin ached, the lips stinging ever so lightly through the drugs. Pink streaked his skin where his blood had been cleaned up. He squealed as the knife dug into the sole of his foot. It didn’t hurt, but he felt the blade scrape against his bone. The artist dug deep, making one long, continuous line around the ball of his foot, then down to his heel. He was starting to feel fuzzy.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I think you’re almost ready.”

“Prrfikt? Mmm peerrrr-fect?” Canvas wiggled the toes on his freshly-mutilated foot. The movement pulled on the wound and made him twist his face up and laugh.

“Stop that, you’re going to ruin it,” the Artist scolded. Their smile twisted upside-down and they grabbed his foot. He frowned too, but stopped moving. The Artist took his other foot and carved another spiral into it. The Artist looked over him reverently. “Yes, you’re perfect. I almost want to mark your back, but I don’t think I want to risk pulling on your chest. I think I’ll mark your face instead.” He just nodded tiredly. “Another dose for this one.”

The needle was like a burr in his skin and he hummed, wishing he could swat at it. The haze increased tenfold until all he could see was the bright light above him. Canvas sighed shakily. His tongue felt like cotton, his lips swollen even though he knew there was nothing wrong with them.

The blood-stained knife came up just under his eye. He felt nothing as the Artist sliced through his cheek, leaving pretty red gashes along his face. Three on each cheek, one on his forehead. The final touch, his eyes. He could see the fuzzy shape of the blade and then it pressed in and he saw nothing. He could feel it though as it slid through his left eye. He laughed. His other eye was held open, the left twitching uselessly in its socket. Canvas was blind.

“Cnnn… Nn. Sseeee,” he slurred.

“I know, my dear canvas. It must be so awful not seeing how beautiful I made you, but this is important. It completes the piece.” Canvas felt pressure against his body, but he couldn’t tell what was happening. There was a tug on his arm, another shot, that he could feel.. No not feel, he recognized the small push but he couldn’t feel anything. The Artist lifted him and carried him somewhere. His arm swung uselessly, pulling on the cuts in his chest.

The thing he was placed on was warm, so warm, so… so… He couldn’t think of anything other than warmth. The Artist praised him, told him how pretty he looked now that he’d been made into a beautiful work of art. His eyes were held open, but it was all black anyway.

“Now, pretty thing, we’ll let those scar right up and then I’m going to do it all over again. You won’t have to worry about being awake for that one. I know, it was a very long few days for you, wasn’t it? Just relax now, I’ll give you another shot in the morning so you don’t hurt too much.”

“Sstteee?”

“No, I have to go clean up the mess from your operation. I can’t stay.” Canvas wanted to cry at the thought. He wanted to be held again, wanted the gloved hands to dig into his skin and tear into him, clean him and touch him. He wanted to hear about how pretty he was.

“Plleeeessss. I nnneed, I, I.” His voice faded. The darkness in his bleeding eyes finally swallowed him up. The Artist left one last touch on their Canvas before he fell into the warmth and gave up.


End file.
